


Guardian

by Silverblazehorse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Family, Gen, Humour, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblazehorse/pseuds/Silverblazehorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five friends died of natural causes at almost the exact same time at Christmas and of course it's only a matter of time until Sherlock Holmes gets involved. However, by pursuing this cold case, he finds himself going against the most powerful man in Britain. A man who would sacrifice anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [believeinsh2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/gifts).



> Many thanks to Beverly and Jolie_Black for britpicking and betareading.

I normally don't see the point of visiting graveyards. I never really understood the need to visit earth, grass and stones with names on them, while the invisible remains below don't even resemble the person one once loved. Today, I just made an exception. The pointlessness of the ritual isn't important if one just wants to say goodbye. As long as there is a ritual. And as long as there is truthfulness. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I've got a secret to share with you. I killed my brother.

 

Having a detective brother around is a mixed blessing, depending entirely on what he might be detecting. Sherlock always had a tendency to understand too much but he didn't understand enough. He didn't understand how difficult it is to stand up to your own blood and do the ultimate deed. And now he never will. I can't deny that never seeing Sherlock again is a strange thought. However, reality will wear off the novelty in due time. Let me tell you what led to the death of my brother and that disastrous last New Year's Eve.

 

It was January 2015 and the Watsons had had their baby. Of course, these events are always accompanied with pointless celebrations, as if at some point, bringing a child into this world hasbecome an accomplishment.

 

I helped to prevent a WWIII, something you've never heard of, that's because it was prevented, in case you wondered. Yet they expect me to congratulate people for being able to act on their biological urges. This world is stranger than most people think it is.

But you're not here to listen to my musings on the fairness of our universe, charming as the thing might seem to some. It just so happened that, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I was invited. Of course Sherlock, attentive brother that he is (and quite aware of my dislike of these types of events) insisted on my presence. Going to this would probably increase my chances of getting away with missing something else. Therefore, I had my PA buy an appropriate present, which, for reasons unknown to mankind, turned out to be a teething ring.

There I was, giving this thing to the woman who once almost killed my brother, basically out of politeness. They accepted it politely and then the whole polite ritual had come to a close. I was quite relieved. Unfortunately, one is also expected to make conversation and be generally charming, even when there is no ultimate purpose. I silently congratulated myself for belonging to a club where no one is allowed to talk.

She smiled at me kindly. 'Thank you, Mycroft, so nice of you to drop by.'

 _I'm not doing that again._ I  might as well have transmitted that thought telepathically to my brother, who smirked at me just outside Mary's view. Without Sherlock and me ever needing to talk about it, I know she shot him and he knows I know. I don't hold any grudges against her. I'm not concerned with childish endeavours like anger and revenge, I only care for reality. I know things about her Sherlock doesn't. She has made sacrifices no one else can make. Even if that means killing your loved ones. She's a guardian.

 

John looked at Sherlock. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

I knew exactly why. Due to Johns new obligations, they hadn't seen each other in a while and John felt a bit guilty about it all.

'So, what have you been up to all this time?' he finally asked.

Sherlock took this opportunity to be as dramatic as possible. 'Cold case file from 1987. Something impossible happened.'

He then waited for John to ask the inevitable question, which John duly did.

'Something impossible?'

'The miraculous Christmas deaths. Five Balliol men died a few hours of each other and no one knows why. They were friends'

'Balliol men? Like in Balliol, the Oxford college?'

'The very same. I went there too, we all went there.'

'So it was about five students. Was it a car crash? Drunk driving? Unbelievable as it sounds, students do those sort of things.'

'Pay attention John, it's Christmas.'

'Hit by a giant Christmas tree? Food poisoning from Christmas pudding?'

'No John, it's Christmas, what do people do at Christmas?'

'Work. At least if they're you.' He gave me a look as to not to exclude me. 'Or if they're you of course.' He shrugged. 'Others might visit their families.'

'Exactly,' said Sherlock, 'they were visiting their families. They lived all over the country. Yet, at that one Christmas day, they all died within an hour of each other.'

'How?'

'Natural causes. Epileptic seizure, heart attack, food poisoning, a car crash and one suicide.'

'That's impossible.'

'Well, it's certainly implausible.'

Implausible, that single little word that would always get my little brother in great trouble. I didn't say anything. If I protested, he'd only be encouraged and I didn't want that. I didn't want that at all.

I was hoping that he would get bored after a while and focus his attention on other things. But a week later I noticed that he was still on the cold case. So naturally, to encourage those other things, I met up with DI Lestrade. I invited him for lunch in a small cafe near the Thames. No, it wasn't a date, as some people here so keenly seem to desire. Although I'd rather have had Sherlock draw that conclusion than find out what we actually spoke about.

'Is it gonna rain?' he said with a look at my umbrella.

I ignored the attempt at humour. 'You know why we're here,' I said.

'Sherlock.' Lestrade sighed. 'What has he done this time?'

'Nothing,' I paused and looked him directly in the eyes. 'Yet.'

 

He rolled his eyes. I must give it to him that he wasn't overly impressed. 'What do you want?'

'You've given him a cold case. Five students.'

He visibly relaxed. 'Oh, that thing, yeah that's a bit fishy. Thought it'd give him something to do.'

'I'd rather have you give him something else to do.'

He gave me a puzzled look. He had become curious. 'Why? It's pretty old.'

I looked at him evenly. 'None of your concern.'

 

When I met Lestrade the next time he told me Sherlock was no longer pursuing the case. I wasn't exactly reassured. Lestrade has his qualities but subtlety isn't really his greatest virtue. It wouldn't surprise me if he were pushing things a little too obviously, with disastrous consequences. Or that he just told him that I didn't want him to pursue the case. So I did what all good brothers do. I broke into his house when he was away. This time the ratio between body parts and furniture was relatively fortunate so I just considered myself lucky. You must know that when you're in his house, what he's working on isn't a great mystery. It's usually on the table, or the sofa, under the microscope, in the fridge and most likely also spread out on the floor.

This time it was the coffee table. On it was a big file, spread out over the surface, covered with post it notes. I took one look at the file and I knew I was in big trouble. This would have to stop, one way or the other. When he came home I used my last line of defence. Sarcasm.

'Christmas murders, Sherlock? Honestly? Were all the interesting cases taken?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Five young friends dying at the same time of natural causes. What do you think?'

'Coincidence.' I lied.

'That seems very unlikely.'

I shrugged, as casually as I could. 'Improbable things happen all the time, due to the sheer number of general things happening.'

I saw him looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. The problem with those eyes is that they tend not to miss anything.

'Since when do you care?' he asked suspiciously and I knew my act had failed. There was only one way out.

I shrugged. 'I don't,' I said and started to talk about something else. He joined in, but all the time the blue eyes were alert. I knew I just cemented his determination. He was now on the case and no one would be able to make him let go.


	2. Chapter 2

I can persuade leaders of entire countries, but when my stubborn brother has an idea in his head there's simply no hope of changing his mind. I am well aware of the fact that the more I try, the more he resists. At this point the only thing I could hope for was that he would leave it alone by himself, maybe helped by some condescending remarks from me. The only thing I could do now was to monitor him as closely as possible. Knowing that situations like this could always turn up I take care to tell him that I hate his coat, thus ensuring that he wears it whenever possible. There's a little microphone sewn into it.

 

Molly Hooper must have been busy with something when they came into her laboratory as one could hear the centrifuge. She was probably isolating DNA from homogenised tissue.

'Molly, do you have a moment? Five mysterious murders.'

'Sure.' You could hear the clicks as she disposed the tip of her pipette into the waste bin and put the pipette on her bench. She wasn't too busy apparently.

Sherlock put up his dramatic voice. 'Five students, friends, die in different locations at the same time.' He lowered his voice. 'As if they had a telepathic connection.'

'Then why hasn't it been in the news?' said Molly.

'Because it happened in 1987,' said John.

'Right.' Molly sounded sceptical now. 'And this is urgent because...'

'It's not urgent, it's interesting. How can that not be enough?'

'Right.' Molly picked up her pipette again. 'Five murders, go.'

'Five Oxford students died in 1987. Matthew Baker, suicide, George Webb, car crash, Oscar Mills, epileptic seizure, Julian Gardner, heart attack and Harry Johnson, food poisoning, medical records unfound,' Sherlock rattled on.

'That's five deaths, not five murders.'

'If you want to know a rough estimate the chances of five young people dying at the same time, you take the base rate of people in their twenties dying spontaneously and take it to the fifth power.'

 

'That's probably a number with a lot of zeroes.'

'Yes, but you're right, it could be chance.'

She ignored his sarcasm. 'So now you want to examine the bodies. From 1987.'

'Not from the car crash and the suicide. Cause of death wouldn't prove a thing. Ideally I would examine the other three bodies and the car. Natural causes may not be so natural indeed.'

'And you need my help for what? You do know what people do with dead bodies, don't you?'

'Toxicology tests on the content of their stomachs. Mass spectroscopy, reaffirm cause of death, that sort of thing.'

'You won't find any toxin after so many years, unless you get really lucky. You know that. What are you really looking for?'

'I don't know. Something, anything that could cast doubt on the original reports.'

He must have smiled wickedly. 'And are you any good with a shovel?'

 

I can't exactly tell you where they went, I don't have a GPS tracker on Sherlock, you see, just a microphone. However, it was night, John and Sherlock were with Molly and there was digging. I also knew where the three students were buried. I had played with the idea of removing the bodies, but that would only be more suspicious. A body that has been in the ground for so long was unlikely to give them any clues anyway. They only seemed interested in the one who had the epileptic seizure.

 

They drove to the graveyard and arrived there just past midnight. They parked as close to the gate as possible, without drawing attention to the car. Then they walked into the dark.

The gate was locked but Sherlock carried a large bag with pliers and other equipment and with a few scratches and cracks, the gate swung open with a screeching sound. It was silent when they walked to the grave, only the soft sound of their footsteps. When they arrived, they dropped their bags with comparatively loud thuds and took their shovels. A pause, they must have looked at each other under the starry sky, and then they started digging.

'This is the weirdest thing I've ever done in my life,' Molly whispered.

'And the most illegal, probably,' said John.

She giggled. 'I really don't think so.'

They worked in silence for a long time until they hit the coffin. Then they slowly cleared the lid, that apparently was still intact. 

'You know what to look for when looking for cyanide poisoning?' asked Sherlock.

'Smell of almonds?' asked John.

'Yes, but I don't think he will smell of almonds any more.'

John laughed. 'Me neither.'

The metal and rotten wood wouldn't easily give way and they worked it until it finally gave in with a big crack.

'Definitely not almonds,' John noted and Molly giggled.

Molly put on plastic gloves and then there were the sounds of a digital camera. Sherlock was making pictures.

'Just get a good view of the larynx,' Molly said. She turned the remains in the right direction for him. More pictures.

'Look,' Sherlock said. He pointed at something and Molly understood at once.

'We've got it,' she said.

 

They closed the coffin and shovelled back all the soil until everything was as close to normal as was humanely possible. Only when they walked back to the car, they began to relax.

'That lock is now definitely broken,' said John.

'That's correct,' said Sherlock, 'but the owner will notice a broken lock, and then notice that nothing has disappeared and probably won't make too big a fuss about it. The stones on the grave conceal our work if they don't look too closely.'

The sound of a cigarette lighter. It could only be Sherlock.

John's voice. 'The only cyanide we're going to find today is in that cigarette.'

'There's cyanide in cigarettes?' said Molly sarcastically. 'Turns out they're not very good for you? I always thought they were a miracle cure.'

'For overpopulation probably,' said John.

'I'm well aware of that, John. As you might remember I once wrote a paper on the contents of tobacco ash.'

'How could I ever forget that?'

'I've never heard of anyone dying of cyanide poisoning from cigarettes.' said Molly.

'I have,' said Sherlock. 'It's possible if you smoke enough. Or if you get a bad batch.'

'So far, it looks like you're trying to find out,' said John. 'At least you're a true empiricist. You're not afraid of leaving traces?'

Sherlock laughed. 'You are grossly exaggerating. And no one but me can identify this type of ash.'

The next evening, the atmosphere in Molly's lab was elated and when John came in, Sherlock almost jumped at him out of enthusiasm.

'We've found it John, it's absolutely amazing.'

'What? The cyanide? That's not even physically possible.'

'No,' said Sherlock with an impatient twinge in his voice. 'Please pay attention, we never looked for traces of cyanide, it's got a half-life of one hour. Bit hard to detect after twenty eight years, don't you think.'

John just ignored that and waited for the explanation. Sherlock waited for another guess but when that didn't come he just went on.

'The autopsy reports, John, you do remember those, do you?'

'Yes, one car crash, one suicide, one epileptic seizure, one food poisoning and one heart attack.'

'Yes, yes, yes, and you remember the method of suicide?'

'Yes, cyanide, that's when you speculated that the other three could also be caused by that.'

'Exactly.'

'But it's impossible to find.'

'That's correct.' Sherlock laughed smugly.

'Sherlock, I'm gonna get you a good therapist, you're enjoying this way too much.'

'Molly, would you please explain what was in the autopsy reports.'

Molly was smiling too. 'Cause of death for both the food poisoning case and the epileptic seizure were suffocation. One choked on his vomit, the other on his tongue.'

'That's why we went to the grave of the epileptic seizure guy.'

'Ok, explain.'

'We found some remains of his tongue. It was in his mouth.'

'So he didn't choke on his tongue. That doesn't prove he was murdered.'

'No, but it does prove that the autopsy report was wrong. And together with the strange timing, this most definitely suggests that something very strange was going on.'

 

That was the last thing I heard about the Christmas murders for quite a while. There was nothing else to discover and Sherlock probably filed away the case. New things came our ways and it seemed that everyone had forgotten about it. However, there's one unfortunate thing about calling a case 'the Christmas murders': every year you're going to be reminded of it.

It was Christmas eve and they were having drinks at Sherlock's place. Surely, this was something the Watsons arranged (since such an event to be initiated by my brother is very unlikely) and their whole little clan was there: the Watsons and their child, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Miss Hooper.

 

Given how my brother normally behaves, he was actually being charming by comparison. The whole thing wouldn't have been restarted if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Hudson.

'Oh, poor Sherlock, didn't even get a murder for Christmas,' she teased.

He smiled at her. 'I almost never get that lucky.'

Lestrade laughed. 'I once gave you a cold case that you immediately dubbed 'the Christmas murders'.'

Sherlock pulled a pained face. 'Ok, so technically I didn't have any hard evidence for that, but the circumstantial...'

'You had a hunch.'

'And you know why. You must have noticed the massive smell of fish that came off that case.'

'Of course. Unfortunately, fish doesn't hold up in court.'

'Five friends, dead within an hour of each other by unrelated causes, one of which is certain to be false...' Sherlock looked into the distance and frowned.

'What is it?'

'If it was murder, it was very well done. No one would ever be suspicious if it wasn't for the bizarre time coincidence.' He looked at Lestrade, suddenly excited. 'So it's possible that the murderer suddenly panicked, but it looked very well planned. This is a very strange hypothesis but it could have been some kind of message. A secret message for someone who knew where to look.'

'Who was that and why was that message sent?'

'Exactly.' Sherlock rubbed his hands. 'And how has it been received?'

Lestrade stretched. He was going to have a Christmas break and wasn't all that interested. 'Well, seems that the case might still show some promise. Who would've thought. Did you know your brother really didn't want you to look into that case?'

Greg Lestrade is not always the most helpful person in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

If you ever were in need of a cold and uncomfortable Christmas, I should invite you to our family dinners. I don't understand why people celebrate Christmas. No, it's the meeting up with people. One could get so much work done. Instead, people gather around a pine tree, exchange meaningless niceties, and just as you think you can't stand it anymore, they will have prepared food that you cannot politely refuse, but that will seriously compromise your diet. I have this spreadsheet with excuses for missing Christmas. The important thing is that you must use the excuses in the right permutations. One should never use the same excuse in two consecutive years, and use a minimum of a five year interval, properly randomised. Unfortunately, for the system to work, one must occasionally show up to pretend that one has good will.

So there we were, at our parents' home, with the Christmas tree and the lights and the obligatory turkey, gathered around the dinner table and making  conversation. There was just no chance that it could end well.

Most of the talking was done by our parents and we sat through stories of musical visits, the lives of friends we barely knew, new restaurants that were tried and rejected, and, worst of all, shopping expeditions. But none of it was so bad as the inevitable question, the invitation to actually join in.

'So...'

Sherlock and I exchanged a glance.

'How's work?'

 

In most households, the 'how's work' question acts to spike light conversation. However, it's not so easy when one of your sons works primarily with classified information and the other with gory crimes.

'Good,' we both said at the same time.

Our father just laughed, used to it. 'You two are terrible at Christmas.'

'I'm doing Christmas murders,' Sherlock protested.

They looked at each other and smiled and rolled their eyes but I felt a chilling cold.

'Glad you're joining in with the festive spirit,' I said as sarcastically as I could.

He gave me a big fake grin. 'You're welcome. And you were wrong about them, by the way, the autopsy reports were wrong.'

I yawned. 'Oh, really?'

'Great that you take such an interest in your brother's life,' our mother said, shaking her head.

Sherlock glanced at her, then threw a long look at me, then he did the unthinkable.

He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette and lit up.

Predictably, her eyes shot fire. 'You know what I think about that.'

Sherlock leaned back and looked her in the eye. 'I have no idea.'

'After all we've been through, the stupid smoking. Every time I see someone lighting a cigarette I think about your poor brother and I will not see this in my house.'

'The chances of finding another bad batch are less than one in a million.'

'They are not zero.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Close enough. And he was always mucking about with those almond seeds, no one ever bothered to factor that in.'

He glanced at me sideways. He knows I occasionally smoke too. It was as if, somehow, it hadn't crossed his mind that statistics don't impress a mother's heart. Maths degree or no maths degree. But I knew this was deliberate.

'Take that thing out,' she said resolutely. 'If you're so intent on killing yourself then that's your business but I don't need to see it.'

 

Sherlock left. I excused myself and followed him outside. I found him just outside the door.

'You know more about this case,' he said.

'Sometimes, things need to be left alone,' I said.

He looked at me curiously. 'And you're the one to make that call?'

 

I didn't flinch. 'Leave it, Sherlock.'

'Why?'

I sighed. 'Trust me on this. Knowing more and understanding more than anyone else does have its natural consequences. Responsibility is key.'

'You don't care about responsibility, you just like the intrigue.'

'On the contrary.'

He snorted. 'You don't actually believe that a little bit more truth in the world is a bad thing.'

'It's not that simple.'

'It might be.' He put out his now finished cigarette and gave me a challenging look. 'The truth will set you free.'

He was remarkably polite the rest of the evening. That's never a good sign.

 

Boxing day, like any other day, is a great day for working and that was exactly what Sherlock and I were doing. The camera in his living room registered him spreading out papers and putting notes on the wall. Sherlock, in his mind, was doing his own little bit to protect the world from evil and set us all free. He was in his dressing gown and around him he had scattered bits of case file (autopsy reports, most likely) and some of the chocolates, cakes and other sweet treats that were leftover from the day before.

Entirely in line with the time of year, he'd put on the radio with Christmas music, probably just to annoy me, there's no chance that he doesn't know that I'm watching and occasionally listening.

He knows I can't handle the sheer cheesiness, the void emptiness, the vanity, of those pieces of 'sound', (for music is a bit grand a term) that we wouldn't put up with atany other time of year, but that somehow smuggled their ways into our brains at the solstice. With 'I'm dreaming of a white Christmas' he put five Post-it notes on the wall.

CYANIDE, EPILEPTIC SEIZURE, FOOD POISONING, HEART ATTACK, CAR CRASH. He stared at them for a while, eating one of Mum's cakes in the meantime.

'Medical records,' he mumbled. Jingle Bells set in.

He took a red pen crossed out EPILEPTIC SEIZURE and wrote underneath CYANIDE?

He took a green pencil and crossed out the other three. Underneath, he wrote: CYANIDE? CYANIDE? CYANIDE?

'Why?' he asked as 'Last Christmas' was setting in. He looked at the files and wrote down the names of the pathologists. The suicide and the car crash were investigated by two different pathologists, but the other three all by the same person: James Pearson.

'What have you been up to?' 'Last Christmas' never sounded so sinister.

 

'I just do my job.' James Pearson walked around the desk in his small office. He was a tall man with a grey moustache. The desk was filled with a big stack of papers, on a side table stood a small coffee machine, some dirty cups and a big bouquet of red roses. The rubbish bin underneath it was full.

'And your job involves faking records?' said Sherlock.

Pearson looked him in the eyes.

'If I did so, which I didn't. you wouldn't be able to find out.'

'Oh, that's actually not that hard,' said John. 'Matter of digging.' He gave the man a broad smile. Not surprisingly, he got none in return.

'And what would you dig up; fragments of bone? Knock yourself out.'

Sherlock looked around, his eyes in a sweeping motion. His eyes stopped at the table with the coffee machine.

'Those red roses must be from your wife, of course, people who have been married for thirty years always send each other roses. I'm sure she likes red lipstick too, that's why it's on your coffee cup. And on your neck, if I may be so bold as to point it out.'

He smiled pleasantly. 'You work with your wife, I'm impressed, most people can't do that. I wonder what her take on it would be.'

'Are you trying to blackmail me?'

'Depends entirely on whether you are covering up five murders or not.' Sherlock grinned, a very big ugly grin. 'But you get to decide of course.'

'Oh, god, you're just like them, aren't you?'

'Like who?'

'It wasn't five murders, if you care to know. It was three. Three young men were brought in here on Christmas day. Friends. Died at the same time in different locations. Of course, people found that a bit dubious, to say the least, and a thorough examination was required.' He looked at them. 'That's standard procedure, you see.'

Sherlock nodded impatiently. 'So you examined them?'

'I would have. If it hadn’t been for our visitors.'.

'Two men. They looked official. They showed IDs from MI5 or something, but it may have been faked.' He shrugged. 'Who am I to tell whether those are real?'

Sherlock nodded at the speed of light. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah, what did they want?'

'They told me that I didn't need to examine the bodies. It was already done, they said. They showed me the reports. I just had to sign them.'

'So they had the autopsy reports ready but you needed to sign?'

Exactly. So of course that didn't feel right and I surely wasn't signing anything that could get me in trouble so I politely referred them to the guidelines.'

'And what happened?'

'They weren't impressed, in case you were wondering.'

'Not really,' said Sherlock dryly. 'They made you sign it?'

'The one with the piercing eyes knew something. He had information somehow but he wouldn't say how. My wife and I, I mean, we're good together, but sometimes there are... distractions. Anyway, he said he could tell I'd made a detour based on the mud on my shoes. Would you believe such a thing?'

 

Sherlock hailed a cab and they went home. Once they were inside, John looked at Sherlock curiously. 'He was afraid, wasn't he?'

'It's a bit strange that the three bodies just happened to be on the table of a serial adulterer.'

'Cheating isn't a crime.'

'No, but it does make one susceptible to blackmail. It's no coincidence, someone was behind this, someone with a lot of power.' He looked out of the window, seemed to hardly register his friend. 'Five friends murdered, then it was covered up by some very powerful people. They knew something.'

'What could that be? And which people?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'There are so many of those kinds of people.'

John threw his head back and laughed.   
'Not that we'd know how many. That's probably the point in the first place.'

Sherlock smiled. 'No, we wouldn't know, would we? But somebody might still remember.'

 

It took Sherlock quite a long time to find someone who wanted to talk but finally he got in touch with Margaret Webb, a pensioner and the mother of George, the student who died in the car crash. She received them in her home, modern and middle class, with tea and biscuits.   
Sherlock instantly understood that she craved to be heard.

After John had made some polite conversation, complimenting the house and the garden, Sherlock cut him short and went straight to business. 'We have the suspicion that your son's death may not have been entirely natural.'

She shook her head. 'I've had a hard time believing that it had really happened. I mean, he was doing so well at Oxford, he rowed. He was a strong man in his twenties, it just didn't make sense.' She took a sip of her tea to make sure that her voice wouldn't break. 'It still doesn't make sense.'

Sherlock was shifting uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on Margaret.

'Car crashes don't discriminate in age, young men are actually more at risk, nothing illogical about that,' he said shortly, not averting his eyes. 'There's something else.'

She looked back, a bit shocked about his brusque manner but not surprised. 'You're right,' she finally said. 'I've never told this to anyone.' She leaned in. 'George had a fellow student, they were friends, but the man was a bit strange. He had those strange piercing eyes and he somehow seemed to know everything about you. He was scouted for some government job, they didn't tell where but George thought it was MI5.'

'Who was it? John asked but Sherlock shook his head.

'I don't remember a name,' she said. I don't think he ever mentioned it. George seemed to have become a bit careful about those things.'

'Do you remember anything else about him?'

'They were friends at first, but George told me that at some point he'd scared him. He was ruthless and incredibly manipulative.  Apparently, the man could have a look at you and then tell you half your life's history.'

'I know someone like that,' John said but she didn't even register it.

'One day when we called he seemed upset. He said he knew something about his friend that could get him in great trouble. He must have done something wrong. It must have been a big deal. That was a few weeks before George crashed. He was coming home for Christmas.'

'What was it?'

'He never told me. It was complicated. That's what he said.' She started crying. 'He said he'd explain it to me some time.'

 

On the ride home, Sherlock was really quiet and stared out of the window into the rain. John looked at him a few times before he asked. 'What's going through your mind?'

Sherlock didn't respond.

'Do you hear me?'

Sherlock made an irritated noise. 'Leave me, I'm working.'

John sat back and studied his friend. 'No, you're not. Something is wrong, isn't it?'

He looked at him intensely. 'You know who it is.'

Sherlock sighed. 'There's no one, absolutely no one, who can do deductions like me. Except one.' Sherlock's voice was toneless. 'It was Mycroft.'

I made my move and a sound indicated that Sherlock had gotten my text.

 

_...and the clocks were striking thirteen._

 

'There you'll have him.' He read it out to John in a thoughtful manner.

'I've heard that before somewhere,' John said.

'Its from the beginning of Orwell's Nineteen eighty four.'

 What does he mean by that?'

'I don't know. Maybe that he's watching us.' He looked at John. 'Which clock strikes thirteen times?'

'No clock strikes thirteen times. That's a bit of the point of a clock.'

'Mmm.' Sherlock stared into the distance.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock never told John that he worked It out because John would have insisted on joining him. But he knew, and he was there, on New Year's Eve, at the Palace of Westminster.

Even though it was a bit rainy, people would always come to the city on New Year's Eve to see the big Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, to have a drink and a party, and to hear the Great Bell, commonly known as Big Ben, strike twelve for the last time of the year. This year it wouldn't.

 

From the Palace, I could look out over the Thames. I'd expected him to get off the tube at Westminster, but he hadn't. My people pointed him out as he came walking across Westminster bridge, just as Big Ben started to strike. People with drinks in their hands all over the city would count with it. One, two, three, four, five... Now I finally saw him between the spectators, in his black coat and blue scarf, walking across the beautifully illuminated bridge. Six, seven, eight, nine... He was at the end now. Like everyone else, he was looking up at the clock tower. Ten, eleven, twelve... a massive bang from the firework display greeted the new year, but not enough to drown out the last strike. Thirteen.

 

I went up into the clock tower (officially she's called the Elizabeth Tower but I refuse to call her that). It is over three hundred steps. My people knew why we were here and they would let him in. It took him a while to get there, I was already at the clock when he finally entered the tower.

'Mycroft!' he screamed, looking upwards onto the long spiral staircase. I didn't answer. He knew I was there. In the small space between the western clock and the panel that illuminates the transparent white glass that forms the back of the clock, one could hardly call me hidden. My silhouette was even visible from the other side of the Thames. 

I heard his footsteps as he walked up the stairs. 'I know everything!' he yelled up into the tower. 'The students got in your way, didn't they?' A pause as he walked further, his footsteps slowly became louder. 'They were making a case against you, weren't they? They'd end your career!' I could hear him panting now, maybe from climbing and yelling at the same time, or maybe because he was biting back tears. 'So you just killed them? Just like that?' I could hear him stop and catch his breath. He was almost at the clock. I resumed my position at the far end of the western clock looking at the white glass. As he finally reached my level I turned to him.

'Dear brother,' I said, 'It's way more complicated than that'.

 

He looked at me, his face a mixture of anger, pain and disbelief. 'You better explain this to me.'

'I will, Sherlock, I will.' With a gesture of my hand, I invited him to step towards me and to look at the clock. Apart from a maintenance hole, the white glass was semi-opaque; you could see the hands and the dials through it. I knew that from outside, both our silhouettes would be visible now. I snapped my fingers and on that sign, with a bang, the lights that illuminated the clock from behind us went out. We stood there in complete darkness until our eyes slowly adjusted. Through the glass, the lights of the city and the fireworks became visible.

'Look, Sherlock,' I said. 'What do you see?'

'London.'

'There it is, stretching out in front of us with all the lights and fireworks and even the big silly Christmas tree.'

Sherlock had found the maintenance hole and looked through it. 'You didn't just bring me here to show me London.'

'This is the free world you're looking at. A free country. The population of London is over eight million. You can see some of those people now. You can see some of their houses and the places where they work. Eight million free people. And sometimes, their freedom needs protection.'

'Explain to me the link between protecting freedom and killing five students.'

I sighed. 'Sherlock, what do you remember of our brother Sherrinford?'

'I was eleven when he died, Mycroft. For me he was just a big guy with blue eyes.' Sherlock paused. I saw him frown as he tried to access the old memories. 'He smoked, he did experiments, he was a bit unpredictable, I remember.'

I shook my head. 'Sherlock, our brother was an absolute psychopath. A narcissist who lived for power.'

'Bit like you then.'

'A bit not like me. Have you ever bothered to find out who those students socialised with?'

'I was more interested in the forensics.'

I rolled my eyes in the dark. 'I feared as much. That is why I brought you a picture.' From my coat pocket, I produced the picture and a small torch and gave them to him. Sherlock looked; the picture showed six young men at a bar, laughing with their drinks.

'Do you recognise the sixth?'

Even if he didn't, our conversation had already primed him to the right answer. In the middle sat a man with short dark hair and bright blue eyes.

'Sherrinford.'

'Correct.'

'He studied maths. He was the best of his year. Were those his friends?'

'If such a person would be capable of having friends, perhaps. He was a genius and a real star. He had already been offered jobs here at all the central intelligence agencies. I think they believed they were his friends. That is until he learned what they came to know about him.'

'What did he do?'

'This was 1987. The internet wasn't yet invented but computers had been around for a while. All signs suggested that at some point, data processing and sharing would become much easier and much more widespread than ever before. Our brother knew that and he hatched a plan so strange that no one would even think of it. He was slowly moving himself into a position where all that information would need to be filtered by him.'

'He was a student.'

'He was what they called at that time a whizz kid. He already worked for MI5 in secret and he had been paying lobbyists for five years. No one could catch him, except another genius.'

'Why did he do that?'

'To quote our friend Orwell again: Power is not a means; it's an end.'

I looked at my watch, it was almost quarter past twelve. I reached into my breast pocket and took out two sets of earplugs.

'The quarter bells will play in a moment. You'll need this.' I said dryly.

He was smart enough not to protest. We put the earplugs in and waited until the bells stopped playing before taking them out again.

'You know what those chimes sing every quarter of an hour?'

He shook his head.

_'All through this hour,_

_Lord be my guide,_

_And by Thy power,_

_No foot shall slide.'_

 

I followed his eyes downward. 'How's your footing Sherlock?'

He looked at me. There was no fear in his eyes. Just anger.

'Why did the students have to die?'

'Oh, Sherlock, you were always so slow. They were not my doing. You remember that Sherrinford was always working with almond seeds?'

'Almond seeds.' Sherlock looked at me in disbelief. 'So often used to make cyanide. How could I not see that?'

'Because you were too young at that time. Later on, you never made the connection.'

Sherlock didn't seem to register it.

'It was him. The message was for you.'

'We fought. We fought all the time but at some point I realised that he wasn't going to change his mind. Then I talked to his friends. They were all really smart people and they had connections. But one thing I didn't foresee: human sentiment. Instead of isolating Sherrinford, they tried to talk to him. He immediately understood that I was behind it. That sealed their fate.'

'They died in a really obvious way, yet no traces of murder. It was a threat.'

'Killing five people you know, just to make a point. At that moment, I truly understood his real nature. There was only one option left to me.'

'His cigarettes. With his own poison. You murdered your own brother.'

'It was either that or our whole country in great jeopardy.'

He looked at me, for a moment too stunned to say anything at all. Then he spoke with a soft voice I rarely ever hear from him. 'So that's the utilitarian solution.' He breathed in slowly. 'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.'

I sighed. 'That's the only sensible position. Having a great intellect creates great responsibility. I gestured to the city. 'I've dedicated my life in service of these people. I am a guardian.'

'You are a murderer.' His voice was ice cold. We just stood there, behind the clock, looking at the lights of the city. Finally, he got to his feet. 'This is the last you will ever see of me,' he said in the same cold tone. He walked away, the sound of his footsteps on the long staircase slowly growing fainter.

 

I waited until he was gone before I followed. As I slowly walked down, I wondered how things would change now. We don't see each other often but somehow he had always been a fixed presence in my life. Usually, he adds a little spice to it, not always pleasurable. My life without him would be more predictable and most certainly more efficient. Visits to parents would need to be planned carefully now. Though I could always give up on Christmas dinners. The thought didn't cheer me up. Sherlock and I never fought because we hated each other. I didn't sleep much that night and the following morning I got a compulsion I never have. I desperately wanted to visit the grave in the silence of the first morning of the new year.

 

I don't see his reflection in the stone, I just hear his footsteps. Of course I would recognise his footsteps although in all honesty, for a moment I think my brain is playing tricks on me. I hide my surprise and continue to stare straight ahead, at the gravestone, until he is finally caught in the reflection. I don't say anything as he stands next to me, vaguely ghost-like in that ridiculous long coat of his.

'I don't even remember his face.' he says.

'You were young,' I say without looking at him. Sherlock and I never needed many words.

'I was eighteen, Sherrinford was twenty three, you were only eleven.'

'So you do remember his face.'

'I see it every night.'

Sherlock doesn't respond to that, doesn't even look at me but focuses on the gravestone itself. Sherrinford Holmes. I never told Sherlock that he was here.

He finally breaks the silence.

'So how did he do it?' Curious as ever.

'Mince pies. He gave them all one for the way home. They got peckish between four and five. One was still driving.'

'I see.'

'We're not like him, you and me.'

'I know. That's why I'm here.' He chuckles. 'You're shit at being a utilitarian.'

I smile with him. 'You know philosophical ethics is only a clumsy tool to rationalise what we feel inside.'

We don't say anything for a long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw.

'Some people, when they think of their families, they think of dinners and making jokes. When I think of my family, I think of unspoken pain. I never understood.' He looks at me fiercely now. 'I never understood, Mycroft.'

I do something I never do. I grab his hand.


End file.
